The Last Emir

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau heaved a sigh of relief as they passed from the busiest areas of the palace and into the part where the records offices were to be found. They approached that first doorway and their escort gestured for them to continue on, then spun and returned to his place outside. The two men stepped through the arch into the area where the clerks and soldiers dealt with visitors, and Balthesar spoke briefly.

  Arnau and his companion both saw the man at the same time: a soldier with a chain veil, garbed in black and white, stood silent and menacing at the rear of the room. Arnau immediately lowered his gaze, though it would clearly be too late now. The soldier had seen them enter and there could be no other reason for him to be in the records offices than to specifically watch for the pair of them. So the Lion was being thorough enough to post eyes wherever he suspected they might appear. Likely there would be men in that tavern and down by the Al-balad mosque too, then. Arnau felt his nerves flutter. A more dangerous situation he could not imagine.

  He was surprised when Balthesar blithely gave their names to the clerk and removed his sword, they no longer having bags to hand over. Arnau did the same, pulse thumping loud in his ears as he did so. To his growing astonishment, Balthesar gave the Almohad warrior a respectful bow before turning and speaking to another clerk. In this, Arnau did not follow suit.

  Handing over his sword with the deepest misgivings, he followed the old knight along the corridor, seeking a room that would undoubtedly look like all the other offices. Arnau watched over his shoulder as they went and was totally unsurprised to see the black-and-white warrior leave the records offices swiftly and with purpose, no doubt to report to his master.

  ‘We’re in trouble,’ Arnau said.

  ‘Not yet. Later, perhaps.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Remember, we are still in the emir’s palace. Abd al-Azīz cannot simply attack us. He is bound by etiquette and simple common sense while we are all here. It is when we leave Al-Mudaina and move into the poorer streets of the city that we will be in extreme danger, for he will not let us slip his leash twice.’

  ‘So we stay in the palace until we go home, then? Real home, I mean. Rourell.’

  Balthesar gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Come on. I have located the archives of the emirate’s more recent staff. My first thought is to find the senior clerks who served under Muhàmmad the First. If they were as thorough as I suspect, then someone would have been charged with recording all the property impounded or destroyed during the reprisals for the Christian uprisings. Somewhere, someone will have mentioned what was taken from the Al-balad mosque and what was done with it. I am positive the records will contain at least a clue.’

  It sounded like a long and involved task to Arnau, though admittedly he was in no hurry to leave the palace now, knowing what probably awaited them when they did. So he followed the older knight along the corridor to one of the many almost identical record rooms. They entered and Arnau was relieved to discover that they were alone. Perhaps it was because of the afternoon prayer that there were so few clerks in evidence. Whatever the case, Balthesar busied himself with the large book on the table once more, while Arnau, starved of anything useful to do, moved over to the window and peered out.

  This room must be on the same wall of the palace as the one they had been in during their morning visit, for it also afforded him a good view of the port and the seaward walls. He could not quite see the palace dock that played host to the Aragonese ship, but his view of the rest of the port and the city was unimpeded. There was a noticeable lack of folk in the streets, since many would now be in the mosques praying, and he could see in places, especially in the garden nearby, people who simply did not have the time to visit their mosques, who had unrolled a small mat and were kneeling upon it, facing east and praying. They were obviously as regimented in their prayer as the brothers were bound by the liturgical canon in the monastery.

  Behind him, he could hear Balthesar muttering as he turned page after page.

  His own gaze roved the landscape, taking in everything, in particular any place that might conceivably serve to conceal two running fugitives. There were many places in the city that might suffice, and he tried to commit the best of them to memory, but his gaze was inevitably drawn back to the one place he would prefer to go above all others: the port.

  Ships from all over were docked there, including Aragonese merchantmen, French ones, Genoese and even Byzantine. From here, passage could probably be bought back to somewhere safe. His laughed bitterly at the notion that just because Aragon was a Christian land it was safe. The Baron de Castellvell still hated them and held sway there. And the house of Rourell would never be the most popular establishment. Still, he would give all he had – which admittedly was not much right now – to be back across that sea and in Rourell. Somewhere where vengeful Almohads were not watching them like hawks, waiting for the opportunity to swoop.

  He sighed wistfully as he took in the variety of colourful sails, each of which held the promise of somewhere safer than here. Three new ships were even now coming into port, heading for a cluster of empty jetties. These, though, were Moorish vessels, from the setup of their sails and their general shape. They turned as one, in formation, making in a line for the three jetties, and that was when he saw the design on their sails.

  ‘Saints preserve us,’ he breathed, and turned a worried face on his fellow Templar.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Balthesar, lifting his gaze from the book for a moment and leaving his index finger marking his place.

  ‘Three Almohad ships. Just coming in to dock.’

  The old knight pursed his lips, his eyes taking on a worried cast. ‘That cannot be good. Three ships is far too many to be mere merchants or another deputation. On the other hand, it is too few to signify an invasion, so at least we are not about to find ourselves in the midst of a war.’

  Arnau nodded, though he wasn’t sure that even Balthesar believed that from the tone of his voice.

  ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘Not yet. This is troublesome. It seems that there was simply too much disturbance and not enough order during those risings and their aftermath for record keeping to be up to its usual impressive standard. I may have to try another tack. Let me think.’

  ‘Think all you like, Balthesar. I’m in no hurry to leave.’

  His gaze went back to the port, where he could now see yet more of those gleaming soldiers in black and white gathering on the dock. This did not bode well. Not at all.

  ‘Have you—?’

  He was interrupted by a click as the diwān door opened, and both occupants turned as one.

  Two green-garbed soldiers stood in the doorway. One gestured at Balthesar and bowed his head before he spoke. When he did, it was in Arabic, of course, and Arnau had no idea what he said, other than that his tone carried a certain level of respect but also an element of compulsion. Balthesar answered in their tongue and also bowed his head before turning to Arnau.

  ‘It would appear that the presence of the Qātil wariʻa has come to the attention of the emir. We are summoned to an audience.’

  Arnau’s heart lurched. The emir?

  His eyes slid back towards those ships in the port. It would very much appear that they had chosen the most troubled time imaginable to visit Mayūrqa.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday, 8 June 1199

  4.30 p.m.

  Brother Balthesar seemed remarkably calm and collected on the walk through the palace, which felt to Arnau more like a trudge to the gallows. They had not had the opportunity to exchange more than a few bland words since the emir’s soldiers had appeared, or at least not useful, private ones. Arnau’s mind had raced, though, with each new room or corridor through which they passed.

  The summons had not been an immediate response, that was clear. The emir knew that they were in the palace, and he knew who Balthesar was – or at least who he had been years ago, while he was still fighting for the Moors and before he
took his vows. And if the emir knew all that, then he can only have learned it from Abd al-Azīz, the Lion of Alarcos. And why would the Almohad reveal this information to the emir? There were several possibilities that arose in the young sergeant’s mind, and none of them boded well.

  Perhaps the Lion had managed to put pressure on the island’s ruler and had more influence and freedom than Balthesar suggested. If that was the case, then perhaps the Almohad was simply using the emir and his administration and guards to arrest and detain the two travellers. Result: they were in the Lion’s grasp.

  Or the Lion had discovered what it was they were seeking, had denounced them to the emir as undercover Christian treasure hunters sneaking around the islands. Arnau didn’t know the emir, obviously, and Balthesar seemed to consider him a solidly independent ruler, but would any Moorish ruler find such a thing acceptable? It seemed unlikely to Arnau. Result: they were arrested by the emir.

  Perhaps the Lion had somehow become aware that they served the order. If that was the case then they would undoubtedly be doubly unpopular. Result: the emir and the Lion both got their hands on them.

  It was even possible, if far-fetched, that during that fleeting moment they had passed in the Al-Mudaina that morning, Baron de Castellvell had spotted and recognised them. After all, it had been less than a year since he had been at Rourell issuing barely veiled threats. If he was working to some political end with the emir, might he sell them out? Result: unthinkable.

  Nothing seemed to produce a happy conclusion for them in Arnau’s mind, and so he continued to picture a noose at the end of their journey, probably being strung by the Lion. Or Castellvell. Or the emir.

  The opulence of the place did not insist itself upon the young man this time as he passed through it. They climbed a staircase that was grand and magnificent with Arnau tramping along like the condemned man, and emerged before a door that contained so much intricately carved woodwork it was more art than function. The guards knocked once and then stepped to the side as though planning to prevent any attempt at escape.

  The doors were opened from within by more of the emir’s green-clad guards. The room inside was not as magnificent as Arnau had imagined, given the other rooms in the palace. An open space with wall hangings of flags in many different designs – all Moorish, though – surrounded a marble-floored room with a single focus. The dais upon which the emir’s seat rested was ornate and well appointed, and carved beasts reared at the corners. It was reached by three steps, and more of the emir’s guards bristled close by.

  The Lion of Alarcos stood to one side with two of his black-and-white-clad men, though his presence came as absolutely no surprise to Arnau. The emir sat upon his throne, eyes locked on the new arrivals, and Arnau found himself studying and judging the man instantly, though with a great deal of difficulty. The ruler of Mayūrqa, Abd-Allāh ibn Ishāq ibn Ghāniya, was darker-skinned than many of the islanders Arnau had seen, closer in complexion to the Lion and his men, which struck Arnau as odd. He was dressed soberly, without affectation, and his personal jewellery was minimal. He wore a turban and his beard was neat. His eyes were absolutely unknowable. Arnau had seen men who looked shifty and men who looked true, he had seen angry and jolly and proud. What he had never seen was a man who looked nothing. There was nothing about his expression and eyes that gave Arnau anything to work with. That alone moved this powerful man into the ‘worrying’ bracket for the young Templar.

  They came to a halt equidistant from the emir and the Almohad deputation, and Balthesar nodded briefly at the Lion before bowing his head respectfully to the island’s ruler. The emir looked the old man up and down and said something in Arabic, and then suddenly followed it up with: ‘Or would you prefer the tongue of Aragon?’

  Balthesar bowed his head again. ‘I am proficient in both languages, though my companion has only a few words of your tongue. If it would be acceptable, Spanish would be of great help for him.’

  The emir nodded and flashed a momentary look at the Lion of Alarcos, who barked out a harsh-sounding reply. The emir gave a weird smile. ‘The Qa’id here refuses to, as he says, sully his tongue with your infidel language, though be assured he can understand it.’

  Again, the emir’s manner failed to clarify whether he was joking at the Lion’s expense or having a joke with him at theirs. Unreadable. Ineffable. Arnau realised now just how clever, and probably dangerous, the emir was.

  ‘So you are the infamous “pious murderer”, then. When I was but a young man, parents frightened their children with your name. You are not the horned demon of those tales after all.’ He smiled that odd smile again, which seemed to teeter somewhere between a savage snarl and a warm grin.

  Balthesar nodded, but replied calmly. ‘I was a terror of the Almohads and of bandits and criminals. Never of the men of the emirs. A man can change, Sidi. After all, I was born a poor Christian peasant in a Moorish land.’

  ‘Which is what you now appear to be.’

  Another laugh. ‘Granted. But I am far more than a simple peasant, as you know. And you are far more than a wāli. You rule as an emir of old. The only one, in fact. The last emir. You control the only taifa in the world now. No, I think you are far greater than an Almohad.’

  Arnau’s eyes flicked to the Lion of Alarcos, whose face reflected the subtle digs at his status Balthesar was making. Still he remained silent.

  ‘Tell me,’ the emir continued, ‘what the most distinguished Monster of Valencia, the soul-child of El Cid, has been doing for near three decades? It is a magnificent tale to begin with: the rise of a nobody from a downtrodden faith to become the champion of a powerful emir and a lord of men, a demon on the field of battle. And then, when Valencia falls, you disappear. I heard tales once that you had come to Mayūrqa to die.’

  Balthesar chuckled again. ‘I am old, yes, but as you can see I am far from expired. In fact, despite the years that hang heavy upon me, I would say that I am in a position to best many a good man. I have not spent my time in dotage, Sidi. Far from it. However, given the somewhat strained history between myself and Abd al-Azīz here, I would prefer not to delve into my personal life in front of him.’

  The emir nodded. ‘Quite. Then if you will not reveal your past, perhaps your present? I do feel that an explanation of your presence on my islands might be in order.’

  ‘I am travelling as a mendicant with my novice here, Arnau de Vallbona. We are on personal business, though it is a matter that has no bearing on your rule, the politics of the islands and the caliphate, or even the good Qa’id here,’ he said, indicating the Lion.

  ‘Personal business that involves sneaking around in my palace?’ urged the emir.

  Balthesar took a breath and straightened slightly. ‘Sidi, there are ears here that are more than merely unfriendly. I cannot, and shall not, say more in front of them, even if pushed to it.’

  The emir sat back and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. A moment passed and then he turned to the Almohads and issued what sounded like a very peremptory command, somewhat at odds with his earlier familiarity with them. Again, Arnau was struck by how difficult to read and to predict this man was.

  With a blank expression, though clearly smouldering with hatred, the Lion of Alarcos gestured to his men and they strode from the room, the guards opening the doors to allow them egress and then firmly closing them afterwards.

  ‘So, terror of Valencia and slayer of Almohads,’ said the emir with that smile that wasn’t a smile, ‘we are alone. You are out of earshot of your unfriendly ears. Tell me why you are here.’

  The older knight nodded and straightened slightly again. Somehow he looked more virile and slightly less old now, through a simple exercise of standing straight and proud with chin lifted. Arnau tried to emulate it as the older man addressed the emir once more.

  ‘Despite the Almohad blood that runs in your veins, Sidi, it is known far and wide that you rule the taifa of Mayūrqa as an emir of old, and it is said that you are a fair and wise ru
ler.’ Arnau noticed an amused twinkle in the emir’s eyes. ‘This is not sycophancy,’ Balthesar said, ‘and not flattery. It is simple fact. I do not seek to inveigle my way into your court, for I am a temporary visitor to these islands on an entirely disconnected matter, and had Abd al-Azīz not been at the court now, you would have been entirely unaware of our existence, even after we left and returned to the mainland.’

  ‘Agreed,’ the ruler replied with a bow of the head. ‘Now tell me.’

  Balthesar sucked his teeth for but a moment. ‘My name – my true name and not some title heaped on me by my peers or enemies – is Balthesar d’Aixere, and has been since the day I let that vicious name that clung to me fade and die. My companion here is Arnau de Vallbona. We are, as you are aware, Christians from the mainland. I am searching for a sacred relic that we know was on Mayūrqa in the early days of the Umayyad conquest. That is the entire and sole purpose of our visit.’

  ‘You are looking for a Christian relic centuries old in my lands? That is all?’

  Balthesar nodded. ‘That is all.’

  ‘The Lion of Alarcos seems convinced that there is more to your presence than that, given your shared history, the impact your name still carries in our courts, the presence of the Almohad deputation and – as you may not be aware – an ambassadorial party from the court of the Crown of Aragon. Your timing does seem strangely coincidental, yes?’

  ‘And yet, Sidi, coincidental it is. We seek only the bones of a man a thousand years dead, and to take them back to the mainland. I cannot conceive of any reason your eminence or any imam or scholar on the island would not wish us to do so.’

  ‘Why, then, come in the guise of a poor Mayūrqan and not as the men you are?’